"I shall go to the chiurgeon's," the red-haired lady states; "after helping me with Edwin, the least I can do is return the favor - I have some coin."
You cross Beggar's Square, stepping over sleeping bodies and past the wooden benches that ring the Square's centerpiece - a large, rusted contraption of brass and bronze and iron, with many gears and levers - the device is easily three times tall as a man, rusted and corroded beyond repair - not that you have any idea what the thing would do, if it did work. Pigeons and crows, strutting across the cobblestones and perched atop the buildingtops, take fliht from your path.
Helping Hand is located in a small, tired, ramshackle old building with boarded-up windows and guttering gaslights flanking the door. Stepping inside, you catch a heavy whiff of iodine, antiseptics, and death.
The waiting room is near-empty. A couple of men suffering from knife-wounds sit in the corner, awaiting attention, as does a middle-aged woman with the broken shaft of a crossbow bolt protruding from her leg. A burly, gray-bearded man with hollow eyes lazily slouches against the doorframe, holding a pitted greatsword in his lap - he watches you, without much interest, as you enter. Behind the admissions desk, a young woman with spiky kohl-dyed hair and horn-rimmed spectacles looks up at you.
"Aye, well, don't jus' stand 'ere like a nutter; wot kin we do for ya?"
